


Of Knights and Princesses

by sekhmettt



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (briefly and nonexplicitly), (i'll put a warning at the start of that chapter nonetheless), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Politics, Slow Build, Stream of Consciousness, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, major character death is not either of the main pairing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26112673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sekhmettt/pseuds/sekhmettt
Summary: Domeric Bolton has survived his bastard brother's attempt on his life and fled to the Vale. After the Boltons orchestrate the Red Wedding and betray the entire North, he's content to stay in the Vale indefinitely rather than return to his father's side and so blatantly defy the vows he took as a knight.However, one "Alayne Stone" is also in the Vale. And what is a knight if not the champion of lost and hidden princesses? Perhaps he'll make it back to the North after all, just not for the reasons his father wishes.
Relationships: Domeric Bolton/Sansa Stark
Comments: 42
Kudos: 56





	1. Domeric Bolton I

**Author's Note:**

> It has been…a long time, since I wrote fanfiction. And also, this is not edited, so…there’s that too. Have mercy.
> 
> This idea wouldn’t go from my mind, and I know Sansa/Domeric is a rarepair, so I didn’t want to burden anyone else with the idea. As such, my motto is, if I can’t find a fic I want to read, I might as well write it.
> 
> This is a mix of show and book canon. It’s been quite a while since I read the books so I don’t feel confident putting it entirely in book canon, but a lot of what this story is based off of things that only happen in the books, so. To guarantee that I stuck to this, I’ve finished writing the story before I started posting. I’ll post a new chapter every three days.
> 
> As for timeline, I’ve buggered with it a little bit. Made Domeric younger, and made his meeting with Ramsay happen at basically the same time that Robert is coming North to make Ned hand.
> 
> Oh and please, if you have the money to spare, buy me a [ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/sekhmettt) in this trying time. God knows I need it. If you do and have a fic request, let me know and I’ll definitely give it my best shot. <3
> 
> And my tumblr is [here](https://sekhmettt621.tumblr.com/). My ASOIAF ship list [here](https://sekhmettt621.tumblr.com/asoiafships).

His father had been right. But then, Roose Bolton usually was. Calculated and cold and ever so _logical_. Weighing risks and opportunities and everything in between. Domeric never should have sought out his bastard brother, never should have tried to reach out a hand in friendship, to foster a relationship. Those that say the nature of bastards was cruel and greedy were right.

Ramsay obviously thought him on the verge of death, as he lay panting in the mud, grasping bloody hands over his ribs, and in truth, Domeric thought himself as good as dead as well. Another mark of the cruelty of this bastard, to leave him to die slowly, bleed out in pain and suffering, rather than show mercy and kill him quickly.

Yet, after three years spent at her side, it seemed that his Aunt knew him better than his father; that she took his lamenting for a brother seriously, that she knew he would take the opportunity to meet when it presenting itself, for it couldn’t have been longer than fifteen minutes after Ramsay’s disappearance before he heard the sound of horses, and saw the yellow and black of Dustin banners. And then, she was at his side, cursing as no lady should and calling for her men to help.

He cannot say how he was transported, but he knew he was going to Barrowtown. His only thought being that at least if he healed there, then he would be able to do so without his father hovering over him, irritable he had ignored direct orders rather than actually concerned about his son’s health. He drifted in and out of consciousness for who knows how long. He had never known his Aunt to be a devout woman, but he heard her praying by his bedside. He heard the maester declaring him likely to die despite their best efforts, heard his Aunt’s threats. _If Domeric was to die, so was the worthless grey rat._ He heard an old lullaby, one barely remembered in a voice that had to belong to his Mother. He heard her tutting about his recklessness and sternly telling him to never take such a risk again, as any Mother would. He heard whispers of the Gods, beckoning him onward, but on which path, he wasn’t certain.

He cannot say how, for he _shouldn’t have_ , but he woke up. Groggy and disorientated, and missing moons of time. He shouldn’t have been able to survive. It was a blessing from the Old Gods and Domeric was once again glad that he’d refused a knighthood under the Seven. His Gods had thanked him for it, protected him from death.

Within weeks of his awakening, his Aunt was sending him along, back to the _Redfort,_ of all places. In the time he’d been sleeping, a war had broken out between the North and the South. Ned Stark was dead. His son was a King. His daughter a hostage. The Vale held neutrality.

It chafed, to be sent away to the Vale when he could be fighting for his kingdom. Yet, he was still weak, and even if he had any grand knightly thoughts of sneaking away to the front line, his Aunt had sent him with more guards than he could slip, even if he knew the rocky terrain and mountainous passes of the Vale better than they ever would. In addition, his injury had weakened him, and moons without moving had only made it worse, muscles weak and fatigued. When once he might have been able to sit a horse for days, now he could only manage hours. It had been embarrassing, but necessary to have a litter on his journey back to the Redfort.

While he would at least have liked the opportunity to stay in the North rather than return to the Vale, while his Father was in the South, his bastard brother traversed the North with free reign. Domeric hadn’t seen himself as a violent man, but perhaps he was more Bolton than he thought. For the things he wanted to do to the bastard brother were crueler and more vicious than he thought himself capable. All he had wanted was family. All he had gotten was an attempt on his life. Yet, he was still too weak.

And so, with little other option, Domeric waited out war in the Vale. Lord Redfort was pleased to see him again, at least. And Domeric could not deny that the wound of his bastard brother’s betrayal stung just slightly less when he could reconnect with Lord Redfort’s sons, his brothers in arms, if not in blood.

He grew stronger. With every day in the confines of the comforting keep walls, he spent more time on a horse, more time swinging a sword, more time rebuilding muscle and strength, until he was nearly back on top form. In no time, he’d be able to join the fighting. At least, that was his intention. But rather abruptly, the fighting _stopped_.

They were calling it the Red Wedding.

Domeric knew his history, knew that he came from a line of blood and war and horror. It had never bothered him. It had even been useful in the past as an intimidation tactic. The Boltons of today were not the Boltons of old, he’d always thought. Up until his father proved their history was not so far in the past as he had believed.

Perhaps he had too much Redfort honor in him, too much of his mother’s softness, for he’d been ill when he was given the details, vomited up his breakfast and only felt more sick as more and more news trickled into the Vale. A wolf-headed King, a slit-necked trout thrown back into her river, betrayal of the highest echelon. It went against every vow a knight was to take. It went against human _decency_. It was inhuman. And unimaginable, and _his family had done it_.

He ignored his father’s request - _command_ \- that he return home. That he take up his place as heir to the Dreadfort - heir to _Winterfell,_ as if it was a place that should belong to Boltons.

Domeric Bolton was dead. No one knew he survived, and why should they? He didn’t _want_ to be a Bolton. Let him be a simple Knight of the Vale, let him pretend that his family’s legacy was not awful betrayal and bloody violence. He would live out his days as a hedge knight, traveling the Vale and helping where he was needed. War was always on the horizon, after all, even with the North brought to heel. There would be a place for him to fight for the Vale, somewhere down the line.

It was a solid plan.

And then, he met Alayne Stone.


	2. Alayne Stone I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I'd post a chapter every three days, but I'm impatient, so alas. Also, screw tenses. I hate them. I'm bad at them. Present tense? Past tense? Who can say, eh?
> 
> Warning: This chapter is the one that deals with the threat of rape/non-con. It is nothing explicit, but Sansa is made to feel extremely uncomfortable. If you think it will make you uncomfortable, skip this chapter, there's a note at the end that explains what happens.

Even in King’s Landing, Sansa had not seen such a large, fine showing of knights. But then, the knights of the Vale were known to be the best and all were vying for a spot in the Brotherhood of Winged Knights, vying to protect her cousin, their future liege lord, even if many thought the honor of ruling the Vale would go to Harry instead. This would have been a dream come true, had Sansa been younger and more naïve. Yet, it was not to be. Though their cloaks were not white, Sansa could no more trust them than she could any knight. It made her skittish, nervous, paranoid.

Yet, Alayne Stone had no reason to be so terrified of the men that have descended upon the Gates of the Moon. And so she kept her face always placid, always calm, even if her hands shook when she hid them in her skirts and her breath came out too sharp if a man lingered too close. She clung to Myranda when she could, Mya when she couldn't. Myranda distracts her with witty japes about the men, ones that keep her giggling behind her hand and pressing her face into the larger woman’s shoulder to hide her grins. Mya is as ill at ease with the nobility as Alayne is, and they find solstice in the stables with the mules, or eating peaches in the courtyard together, but away from others. She has such a calmness to her, that her peaceful companionship is a balm to Alayne’s own jumpy soul. 

Alayne’s unease wasn't helped by the cold greeting that she got when welcoming Lord Hardyng to the Gates of the Moon. He is not much pleased to be marrying a bastard girl, and was unafraid to show it to her and everyone he travelled with. She wondered if she ever truly treated Jon so cruelly, but has to push the thought away, for if she thinks of Jon Snow, she will have to think of Sansa Stark, and she cannot do that or she will mess everything up.

The feast goes well. There was still tension in the room at times, especially when Petyr gives a speech welcoming everyone. Yet, at the onset of winter, everyone was glad to take an opportunity to relax, feast, and dance before it truly set in. Alayne spends most of the night at Myranda's side, absentmindedly nodding along as she chattered about this Lord or that knight, only truly paying attention when she must gasp and smack Myranda's arm for a comment that is just a touch _too_ raunchy for polite company, even if said company is mostly well on their way to drunk. It almost reminds her of a Northern feast, as one crew of rowdy knights break into a rousing edition of the Bear and the Maiden Fair. 

The most awkward moment of her night comes when, as couples start to dance, Harry Hardyng marches his way over, barely restrained scowl on his lips as he asked, "A dance, my _lady_?" It is obvious he was prompted by Lady Waynwood, who is watching with shrewd eyes over her chalice, and the food she has eaten turns to rock in her stomach as she offers a bland smile and nod. Myranda looked on in sympathy as she stood, seemingly forgiving Alayne for 'taking her betrothed' as she had put it before. They danced in silence, Harry looking over her shoulder rather than at her, and her back was stiff, even if her steps were graceful. She kept the same placid, empty smile on her face that she would whenever Cersei would call her little dove or Joffrey would force her to attend court. 

When the song came to an end, she curtseyed prettily, glancing up from under her eyelashes to catch him giving her a once over from head to toe. "At least you're pretty." he mumbled under his breath as he turned and strode away, leaving Alayne standing in the middle of the dance floor. She felt the angry tears prick at the corners of her eyes, and she clenched her jaw, turning away. She ignored Myranda's call to dance with her, striding out of the room. It was late anyway. Sweetrobin had already been put to sleep hours ago, and it was time for Alayne to sleep as well. 

After Marillion, she did not know what she expected of these so-called _honorable_ Vale men. The only men she had ever known to truly be honorable were her fath – _that is_ , Eddard Stark and his sons, and just Northerners in general. They were a different breed than Southerners. There were none passed the Neck who held true honor, of this she was certain at this point. She was right to be wary of these men, for after a moment, she found herself accosted, pinned between a body and a wall, and it was all so familiar to a riot in King’s Landing that _Alayne_ never experienced that she froze up.

Over the sudden insistent buzzing in her head, it was the voice of a maester – of _Luwin_ \- she heard, droning on, testing her on her knowledge of noble families. She was always quite good with them. House Hunter of Longbow Hall. Sigil? Silver arrows on a brown field. Words? Our arrows strike true. Did any of this matter right now? _No_. Her tongue felt like lead. She should scream, shout, but the hour was late and it scared her to think of angering the man who was so close she could smell the ale on his breath, the man whose hands wandered over her ribs, up towards her breasts, touch burning through the suddenly far too thin dress she is wearing.

And then, like a true knight from one of the tales, a voice, commanding and stern called out, “Unhand her.”

“Piss off, find your own whore.” She cringed at the words the man pinning her to the wall snarled, not even looking up from where his eyes were glued down the front of her dress. Myranda had liked the dress, said it made her look beautiful. She wanted to burn it and wrap herself in furs and never show an inch of her skin to a man again.

“She looks like she’s about to shake apart at the seams with fear, you fool.” Over her assailant’s shoulder, she saw pale eyes narrowed in displeasure, a hand resting on the hilt of a sword, “Go find a willing woman. Knights of the Vale do not act with such dishonor.”

A glance back and she knows the assailant before her saw the same thing, the threat, and was at least sensible enough to know he cannot hold his own against a sober man when he himself was drunk. A scoff and he pushed off the wall, stumbling away from her. “Fine, have her. Not worth the bloody effort.” One last spiteful shove from the man sent her stumbling, and the mystery knight reached out to steady her, dropping his hand when she flinches away. Was she simply going to passed from one man to the next? Surely, it was not knightly honor nor even common decency that had caused him to act. She had found people were not so selfless, especially to baseborn girls.

Still, she swallowed the lump in her throat, keeping her eyes downcast as only a bastard should. “Thank you, ser. Not many would step in for a bastard, even Lord Baelish’s own get.” She curtseyed low, “Alayne Stone.” If her beauty enticed men, her name may repel them. Petyr did not have all the power in the Vale, but if she had stumbled upon one of the houses loyal to him, perhaps she would be lucky. “And who is my savior, ser?”

“I…I am Ser Dom. I come from the Redfort.” It was not a difficult question, to cause such hesitance in him. While her skills at spotting untruths were lackluster and still growing, this man was not a good liar. Anyone could recognize his uncertainty. Yet, he wore the white and red sigil of House Redfort, so there was at least some truth to his claim. Beyond which, he had saved her. She would give him the benefit of the doubt and not question him, not that she felt like she had the strength to do so even if she wished to. She wanted nothing more than to curl up in her bed and pretend that Harry was not cruel to her this morning and at the feast and that men were not crude to her because she was pretty and that her life could go happy and right for _once_ in her lifetime.

Her longing gaze in the direction of the family tower must have been noticed, for he asked, “May I walk you to your rooms, my lady?” He must have also noticed the way she tensed, for he quickly continued, “Just to ensure no other men attempt to take such liberties. There has been much celebration since the Waynwoods arrived, and men are drunk and acting foolish.”

Where _were_ her guards? Yes, she had left the feast rather abruptly, but surely they were better trained than this? Ser Lothor, Oswell Kettleback, or gods above, she’d even take Lord Nestor. Any of Petyr’s men would do. Petyr wanted her maidenhead safe even more than he wanted the rest of her safe. One would think he wouldn’t have been so careless. Yet, with the stress of all the Vale visiting and all the men he still had to turn to his side, she supposed he is busy. And Alayne is a biddable daughter, unlikely to get into trouble if she can help it.

Realizing she had been standing in silence for a moment too long, Alayne jerkily nodded her head. She does not reach out to him, and Domeric does not offer his arm, though he lets his hands rest behind his back, open, bent elbow a clear invitation if she desires to take it, to steady herself. She does not. The walk to her room is silent, and she’s grateful for it, head too filled with thoughts of what could have happened, of what had almost happened once in King’s Landing to a different girl, of how little men respected a woman, whether she be baseborn or highborn.

Still, at her door, she turned to him, and curtseyed deep. “I thank you Ser. I will tell my lord father of your bravery and the help you gave me.” Something flit over Ser Dom’s face, too quick for her to recognize, and he shakes his head, offering her a slight smile.

“That isn’t necessary, my lady. Your thanks is enough reward.” Perhaps he was not an ally of Petyr, for surely, he would know a reward was coming his way for his actions. Petyr Baelish cared for the safety of his bastard daughter and rewarded those who protected her well. And if not one of Petyr’s men, why had he stepped in? Many others wouldn’t have, she knew this to now be true. Perhaps a Northerner would have done so for the sake of a lady’s honor, but none so far South would have cared.

Before she could consider whether she wishes to probe deeper, he was offering her a bow, lower than even an unlanded hedge knight would ever need to give a baseborn woman, and turning to leave. He truly did respect her desire to be left alone, and seemingly had only interfered because it was the right thing to do.

What a strange curiosity Ser Dom of the Redfort was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Domeric: *shows common human decency*
> 
> Alayne: ??? what's that?
> 
> I believe chapters are going to start ramping up in length in a bit. This chapter is already double the length of the last one lol. Next chapter is another Domeric chapter with his thoughts of what happened here and some insight into his relationship with Lord Redfort. :)
> 
> Also, chapter summary for those who may have needed to skip: Alayne/Sansa is at the feast to welcome all the knights to the tourney. She is having fun with Myranda when Harry, very obviously against marrying a baseborn woman, is forced to dance with her. It is awkward, he makes a rude comment, Alayne leaves the feast. On the way to her room, she is cornered by a drunk man and Domeric interferes, stopping the interaction before anything awful can happen. He walks her back to her room, but they don't talk much. Domeric introduces himself as Ser Dom of the Redfort, still going incognito due to the shame he feels for his family's actions in the Red Wedding. Alayne is thrown off by the fact that he saved her for seemingly no reason other than she was uncomfortable. They separate and Alayne goes to bed.


	3. Domeric Bolton II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I said that this story was basically finished when I posted this, and it was. But then I veered wildly off course for what I was intending to do in LITERALLY the last chapter I had to write, so now it’s going to be longer than I thought because I started a whole new plotline. Uh oh, I really got to stick to spreading my chapters out now, so that I don’t catch up to where I’m still writing lmao.
> 
> Also, a bit of a jump back in time to Dom’s side of the feast, but then we continue onwards. I’m messing with timelines again, oops.

Domeric had spent most of the night of the feast at a table with the Redfort sons. So far as he could tell, no one outside of the Redforts recognized him, despite the years he had spent in the Vale. He couldn’t say he was surprised. Rumors of his death seemed to have spread widely in the Vale, with Lord Redfort doing nothing to dispel them. Domeric had come to his home for shelter, so of course Lord Redfort would do his best to shield him. His father hadn’t dispelled the rumors either, which was more curious, but considering he was still trying to grapple with what the man had done, he was in no rush to send him a raven asking why.

Things were going great, until a chipper Ysilla Redfort, formerly Ysilla Royce, came bounding over from her father’s table, laughing and asking Mychel for a dance. She was rejected rather soundly, and as her smile slipped from her face, an awkward silence fell over the table. “Come now Mychel! Don't be a killjoy! Dance with your wife!” Jasper attempted to break the mood with a laugh and a clap on his brother's back but the pinched look on Mychel's face didn’t dispel and he turned his head away from his new wife, who tilted a wobbling chin up, spun on her heel, and returned to her father’s side.

It rather put a damper on their good tidings, as no one knew what to say, even as Jasper valiantly tried to rally them back into cheerfulness. It worked to a degree, but Domeric bowed out, citing tiredness and remedying to talk to Mychel come the next day. The boy was a few years younger than him, and he considered him a little brother. He knew that Mychel had been enamored with Mya Stone, that had been evident even back when Domeric was a squire and Mychel a mere lad under ten. He’d always follow the mountain climber around, chattering on about her mules, about the mountain pass, about anything that might garner her attention. Domeric knew it must have been a hard blow that his love had been forbidden and he’d been forced into such an early marriage. Lord Redfort was a fair man, a kind father, but even he would not allow his son to continue a dalliance with a bastard. It was unheard of, especially in the high as honor Vale.

Lost in his thoughts, he nearly ran directly into a couple who hadn’t the decency to find a bed before getting close and personal. He was prepared to jape with them, tease them and usher them to a bedroom, before he caught sight of the woman’s face. She looked like a fawn, startled by hunters and caught in one of their snares, eyes wide and chest heaving with panicked breaths. It was nothing to step in, to scare off the fool drunkard, and to offer the lady safe passage back to her room. Despite her shaking hands and first wobbly steps, she did not take his arm for balance, and he was impressed with her strength, even if it may have been fueled by fear of him and all men, after what she'd experienced during the night.

He hadn’t known who she was when he arrived, but now he couldn’t help but feel like he _did_ know her already. He'd kept glancing at her out of the corner of his eye as they walked. She seemed familiar in some way, though he couldn’t place why. He’d certainly never met Alayne Stone, hadn’t even known Lord Baelish had a natural born daughter. She just looked _familiar_ and it bothered him, but there was nothing to be done about it now to try and figure out why. He wouldn't question her when she was still so spooked. So they went their separate ways with few words to one another. 

The morning of the first rounds of the tourney dawned early the next day, and Domeric was the first to arrive by Lord Redfort’s side come time to break their fast, despite not having any runs scheduled for the day. Breaking his bread, he realized this was a good opportunity to sate his curiosity from the night before, “Do you know Lady Alayne Stone? Lord Baelish’s daughter?”

“I know she’s not a lady, but a bastard.” Lord Redfort comment and warning glance were harsher than they might normally have been. He had been testy ever since Mychel had so stubbornly fought him on the marriage to Ysilla Royce. “I already have one son who fancies himself in love with a bastard. Don’t give me another.” Domeric couldn’t help the grin that split his face at the slip up. It happened occasionally, Lord Redfort referencing Domeric as a son and he always loved to tease the old man about it. However, he was not given the chance and the grin quickly melted away into a scowl at his next words, “You’d think your _brother_ would have taught you the dangers of bastards.”

“I was simply _asking_.” He snapped, more defensive and sullen than he’d like, made to feel a boy again around the surly old lord. “I did not know Lord Baelish had a daughter. I helped her deal with a handsy knight at the feast last night. She seems polite and well raised, despite the circumstances of her birth.” Of course, as the acknowledged daughter of a Lord Protector, she might manage to make a good marriage for herself so long as she stayed pure and untouched.

Lord Redfort huffed but nodded in acknowledgement. “No one knew. Baelish brought her with him when he came to marry Lady Arryn. No one knows the mother either. She was gently raised though, no doubt about that. She is making quite the place for herself as Lord Robert’s nursemaid. And there’s rumors Baelish and Lady Waynwood are trying to set up a betrothal between the lady and Harrold Hardyng.”

“The _heir_?” Domeric blurted. Certainly, he had come to the lady’s defense against his foster father’s pointed comments, but even he would not be so bold as to consider wedding a bastard to the man who would most likely run the Vale one day. Lord Redfort nodded with a chuckle. “Well, Baelish has always been known for climbing, apparently he is bringing his daughter up the ladder with him.” He supposed that every man had at least one admirable trait; Baelish's seemed to be supporting his family. 

“Dom, there you are! You’ll never guess –“ Whatever Mychel was about to say was cut off abruptly when he noticed his father, body growing stiff and tone a sort of cold he’d never heard from the boy before, “My Lord Father. Excuse me for interrupting.” Lord Redfort’s expression looked pained and Domeric frowned, glancing back to the man’s youngest son. Clapping a hand on Lord Redfort’s shoulder, he stood.

“Mychel, come on, walk with me.” Waiting until they were away from the crowded hall, he hooked an arm over his shoulders, “Are you in the lists today?” Mychel knew him too well, recognizing the beginning of a trap before he could even spring it on him, warily eyeing him as he murmured that his joust would be to tomorrow. “You should ask your lady wife to give you her favor.” Face twisting into a scowl, he pulled out from under Domeric’s arm, shoving him away.

“No Dom, I won’t! I won’t do that to Mya. She’s here at the Gates, you know?” He did know. He’d greeted her just yesterday. The poor woman seemed near as unhappy to be here as Mychell seemed to be in his new marriage. It was a tragic love story, one fit for the songs. Perhaps Dom would do the honors and write one, some day. He sympathized with Mychel, truly he did. As the youngest of Lord Redfort’s sons, by all means, he should have the most freedom in his marriage choices, and yet he was forcibly married before any of his three older brothers. A quick and easy way to avoid a potential scandal with the bastard Mya Stone. Even Oberyn Martell had never married his bastard lover, and he was from _Dorne_. There was no way Mychel, even as a fourth son, would be allowed to do so, and he didn’t have the option of taking a paramour as the Dornish Prince had.

Sighing, he forcibly pulled the boy under his arm again, a momentary wrestling match before Mychel yielded to the taller man’s touch with a grumble; Dom continued, “Mych, Lady Ysilla won’t just go away. You two are married now, and nothing is changing that. Even if your heart belongs to another, that doesn’t mean you have to make your marriage miserable. You don’t have to love Ysilla, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be kind to one another, form a friendship if nothing else.”

“Mya and I could run away. Go to the Free Cities. I could be a sellsword and she could be my wife and Ysilla could be free to marry again, to whoever she chooses.” Domeric didn’t let his alarm at the idea show. It was obviously an idea Mych had considered at some point, if he was so quick to share it, and his eager eyes looking to him for assurance, for support, things Domeric would never give in this scenario. He paused a moment to collect his thoughts, to come up with a rebuttal that wouldn’t see this boy lost across the Narrow Sea.

It was simple in the end, for there was one thing that Mya had always loved more than Mychell. “Do you think Mya will ever be happy if she left her mountain, her mules?” The question was gently asked, but Mychell still deflated as if he’d shouted him down. He said nothing else, for there was nothing else to say. They both knew it unlikely. Mya would chafe at the idea of being nothing more than a wife, given she had found a place and position she adored in the Vale, a purpose and a respect that most bastards would never receive.

Mychell’s only argument was a nearly petulant mumble of “Harrold Hardyng gets to marry a bastard.” And ah, wouldn’t it be so simple if Mychell could marry _his_ Stone, while Harry could spurn _his_ Stone as he seemed to want to do? But life rarely worked out so neatly.

“In an arranged marriage, same as you. And _potentially_. There’s still negotiations happening.” Truthfully, Domeric felt more sympathy for the Lady Alayne than Harry. Harry might one day make a good Lord of the Eyrie, but he would never make a good husband, if rumors about him were to be believed. Sighing, he returned to the true matter at hand, even as he turned them towards the tiltyard so they could witness the first of the day's jousts, “Consider what I said Mych. You have to start making friendly overtures to Ysilla eventually or you’ll never be happy. You’re _married_. What’s done is done, and there’s no changing the past.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s a wrap. That entire section with Mychel & Dom was added right before I posted this. Idk where it came from, but I’m slowly but surely adding a Mya/Mychel subplot as I edit these already written chapters. Help me. 
> 
> Also, I recognize I have not delved much into Domeric and his whole reason for staying in the Vale. Yes, I’ve given a very vague ‘he didn’t like the Red Wedding’ reason, but that’s intentional. You guys aren’t getting to see it, because Domeric is refusing to acknowledge it, even to himself. Bottling that up will be a mistake down the line, for a multitude of reasons, oof. 
> 
> Also, everyone’s favorite creepy faux father shows up next chapter, woooo.


	4. Alayne Stone II

As was typical, Alayne went to Petyr’s solar when she woke. He was already well awake by the time she arrived, sitting at his desk and writing a letter. She sat across from him and waited until he looked to her. He did quickly enough, greeting her with a smile and asking how her first meeting with the heir had went. He’d obviously heard of her unfortunate series of interactions with Harry the day before, advising her to not take it personally, and instead let Harry fall for her pretty face, then snatch herself away and don’t give him the satisfaction of appearing interested. Flirt with him until he asked for her favor in the lists, and then give her favor to another man for the tourney. It seemed cruel and pointless, but she obligingly nodded her agreement to try. Perhaps she would give her favor to Ser Dom, if he were to ask. She still wished to know more about this mystery man who actually seemed to _care_ about a knight’s vows to protect the innocent. A revelation. She had meant to ask Myranda, who seemed to know _everyone_ and _everything_ , but Petyr had the same gift and was with her now, so she thought it would work just as well to ask him.

“Father?” she waited until he acknowledged her with a hum before she continued, “Do you know of Ser Dom, of the Redfort?”

Petyr looked to her sharply but didn’t speak for a long moment. “No, I don’t.” There was something in his voice that seemed off, but she couldn’t place what. Before she could find a way to question it, he continued, “But there are so many knights in the Vale. I can hardly name them all.” He pursued his lips at her, teasing, “Why do you ask? I hope you haven’t already began to fancy on one of the valiant knights rather than your future betrothed.”

“No.” she stated firmly. She was not Sansa Stark, to swoon at the first handsome knight who did her a kindness. “A man interrupted me on my way back to my room last night, and Ser Dom stopped him from doing anything untoward. I simply wanted to know how to thank him, if such a thing is necessary.” If he was nothing more than a hedge knight, then the simple thanks she had given would be enough. If he were perhaps one of Lord Redfort’s sons, downplaying his birth by choosing to call himself Ser rather than Lord, than a stronger gesture may be necessary. Of course, she didn’t _think_ that he was a Redfort. While she couldn’t name every member of every family in the Vale, she had a better familiarity with the Redforts due to Mya’s love for their son and Petyr’s comments about their patriarch’s place within the Lords Declarant. 

“Have you ever met Ser Dom before last night?” he asked, something intense in his gaze.

Brow furrowing in confusion, she answered, “I don’t believe so, why?”

“Did he seem to recognize you?” That question only confused her more and she simply shook her head. Petyr’s shoulders relaxed and he offered her a wane smile.

“Nothing to worry about, sweetling.” And now he was speaking to her like a child again, as if she couldn’t _at least_ surmise that he was hiding something, even if she couldn’t possibly guess what. The only way it would be more offensive was if he were to pat her on the head like a treasured pet. She breathed out from her nose, reigning in her irritation. 

“Should I have recognized him? Or he recognize me? Have we met?” she nudged, keeping her gaze on his face, as pointless an endeavor it always seemed to be. He taught her how to read others, but never how to read himself. His eyes gave away nothing when he shook his head.

“I cannot say for certain, but I doubt it. If I haven’t met him, how could you have?” It was a fair point, given that he’d lived in the Vale his whole life and she had only just arrived, but she didn’t understand why he questioned her so. If he hoped to push her away from investigating and away from Ser Dom, he’d only served to ignite her curiosity and push her to find out more. As if sensing as much, he continued before she could ask anything further, “Come sweetling, we can’t be late to our own tourney, can we?”

Frowning, Alayne accepted the elbow he offered, letting him lead her to the tourney grounds. She’d have to ask Myranda. Her friend would be honest with her where Petyr was not. When they arrived, Petyr would be far too busy with wooing the Lord Declarants that still stood against him to worry about what his bastard daughter was doing. And sure enough, he left her with a kiss to her knuckles, and she quickly sought out her friend, settling into the stands beside her.

“Ready to take advantage of the chance to see all the handsome knights? Perhaps I’ll find my next husband on the field, hmm?” Myranda teased as a greeting, pulling an eye roll from Alayne.

While Petyr may keep things from her, at least he wouldn’t tease her like Myranda was likely to. Yet, she still had to ask the question, “Speaking of knights, have you heard of Ser Dom of the Redfort?”

Sure enough, Myranda’s expression lit up with delight at the prospect of teasing ever stoic, ever shy Alayne over a potential crush, “Fancy finding yourself a knight?” she asked, but a stern look from the woman in question had her rolling her eyes and pursuing her lips, thinking the question over. “I don’t think so. Only Dom type from the Redfort was a Lord Domeric, knighted there a few years back, but he’s dead.” Ser to Lord, Dom to Domeric, could there be a connection? Yet, the man she’d met had certainly been alive and well.

“Tell me of this Lord Domeric. How did he die?” Perhaps there was a mistake? It would be strange, for the man to fake his own death, but the similarities were there.

Myranda shrugged, but her eyes sparkled as they always did when she got to share gossip, “No one knows for sure. It’s all rumors. Some say he just fell ill, something with his stomach, but he was a healthy man. Some say he didn’t die, but ran away, but that hardly fits. He was the heir; few heirs would want the life of a runaway over the life of a Lord. The most _interesting_ rumor says his bastard brother killed him to take his spot as heir. If the Boltons can do something like the Red Wedding, who knows what their bastards could do?” 

Voice faint, probably not even loud enough to be heard over the crowd, Alayne managed, “Bolton?” Even before Sansa Stark had left Winterfell, she’d heard of poor Domeric Bolton’s fate. She had lamented his death in that the first, shining example of a Northern knight had passed away, but it hadn’t phased her much given she’d never met the man and had been far more interested in the upcoming visit from the King and the Southern court.

Abruptly, she remembered Ser Dom’s long face and pale skin. How he had seemed familiar, but she couldn’t say why. _Of course_ he was familiar. He was a Northerner with Northern features. And those _pale eyes_ , just like the Boltons had always been known to possess. He was a Bolton. There was a Bolton in the Vale. She was supposed to be safe here. Lannisters and Freys and _Boltons_ were not supposed to know she was here, but why else would he be here? And why would he save her from the drunkard? Lull her into a false sense of security? But no, she wasn’t a Stark. She was a bastard. A Baelish bastard. She was Alayne Stone. Sansa Stark was already dead. Perhaps he didn’t know, but _why_ would he be here? Why would he not be in the North, ruling Winterfell with his father? Why would he be here if not to kill her? Kill the last Stark and the Boltons’ spot in Winterfell would always be safe.

“ _Alayne_! Come on love, breath.” It was a harsh whisper, meant to preserve her from the embarrassment of having a breakdown in the middle of the tourney, hopefully drowned out by the crowd, and it worked. Snapping back into reality, Alayne gasped, abruptly tilting her body towards Myranda to hide the panic on her face. Her friend obligingly pulled her closer, rubbing a hand over her back. “What was _that_?” The typical curiosity was there, but concern was too. For all that Myranda may be seeking information, she was a friend. _Alayne Stone’s_ friend.

Breath still coming out in panicked little pants, she shook her head, pressing her face into Myranda’s shoulder, muttering against her dress, “I don’t want to talk about it. Please. Can we leave? I want to go.”

Silently, Myranda stood, pulling Alayne up with her. She tilted her head down, letting her hair fall in her face. If she looked up and saw pale eyes watching her, she might just faint. Looping their arms together, Myranda threw her head back and laughed, “A brilliant idea Alayne! Come, let’s go do that right now.” _Alayne._

No one knew. Petyr knew. And she knew. And perhaps Kettleblack and Ser Brune, but they wouldn’t betray Lord Baelish. To everyone and all, she was Alayne Stone. Domeric Bolton couldn’t be the in the Vale for her. There had to be another purpose.

Straightening her spine, Alayne pushed her hair out of her face and painted a smile on her lips, following gracefully after Myranda. She would have questions. But Alayne had answers. She was a gentle, retiring girl. The idea of a man connected to the Red Wedding would be enough to send her into such a fit. She would explain it away. It wasn’t personal. How could it _ever_ be personal for a Valeman’s bastard?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fast reveal for Alayne, but sorry Dom. You're not so easily forgotten in the Vale, especially after your tragic end. 
> 
> Speaking of Dom, Broken Crown by Mumford & Sons, gives me MAJOR feels for him. I jammed out to it while writing an upcoming chapter where he's talking about his family oof. 
> 
> Next up, a new POV, who only shows up rarely, three times in the entire story, because I suck at writing this person lol. Also a bit of a weird chapter because it's literally just thoughts and no interaction with anyone.


	5. Petyr Baelish I

Now this was not a development he had been expecting. He was not the only Vale lord holding a potential heir to the entire North. Perhaps old Horton Redfort was more clever than he let on. Or perhaps it was simply emotional. Everyone knew the Bolton boy was near another son to the man. Little Sansa had no idea who she had met, and all the better for it. She would not take well to a Bolton in their midsts, and could reveal herself and ruin his plans in a fit of passionate vengeance if she were to find out he existed. That, or more likely, work herself into hysteria, faint, or worse. Her strength was growing by the day, but she was still a girl. 

Still, this was an...interesting development. A new piece on the game board had appeared.

It would not change his plans over much. Sansa Stark was still the key to everything. She could marry Harry or, perhaps, if her wiles worked better on him, Domeric. True, a marriage to Harry would put the Vale more firmly in their hands, but there were enough sentimental old men who remembered Ned Stark that they might be willing to throw their support behind her regardless. That, and she had little Robert Arryn’s adoration, as worthless as it was in the grand scheme of things, but it might mean something to some Vale lord out there. Even Domeric Bolton himself had a good reputation in the Vale and would bring the support of House Redfort, if no one else, to their side.

And a marriage to the trueborn Bolton heir would make taking the North simple. If the men there supported the Starks, they would follow her. If the men supported the Boltons, as unlikely as that seemed for the ever loyal Northerners, they would follow the trueborn son over the bastard son, especially if he came married to the last Stark, putting only more legitimacy to his dominion of the North. Not, of course, that Petyr had any plans to actually let the boy rule.

And so, the first step would be completed. Take control of the North, with the tacit support of the Vale behind her. The Riverlands would follow suit quickly enough, given her blood connections she had and their lack of other Tullys. Edmure was a hostage to the Lannisters. The Blackfish was missing and an outlaw. Sansa looked just like her mother, and Cat was still remembered fondly in the Riverlands.

Then, in time, her husband, regardless of who he was, would suffer an accident, and Petyr would marry her himself. Now, the finer details still had to be hammered out, for the winds of war were ever changing. But, inevitably, the Lannisters’ hold on the capital would begin to wane, either through Tyrell influence or Stannis Baratheon’s last ditch efforts to win the war. The Vale would still be fresh for fighting and what little forces the North and Riverlands may have remaining would fight for the last of Houses Stark and Tully to sit upon the Iron Throne. Dorne would be Dorne and remain neutral as they always had. Whispers of a dragon to the East persisted, but again, he'd create a plan when all the pieces showed themselves. He had time. All Petyr had to do was simply be along for the journey, always directing his pawn to make the right decisions, until the pawn became a Queen, and in the end, he’d have everything he wanted, from the Iron Throne to a bride that was Tully in all but name.

But now, there was a choice. He could continue on as originally planned. Marry her to Harry the Heir. Guarantee total support for her in the Vale, while potentially stirring up a more difficult fight in the North. Or he could marry her to Domeric Bolton, rely on her father’s memory and her own ability to inspire loyalty in the Valeman, and bring the North quickly and easily under one banner.

Harrold Hardyng was a brash, arrogant boy. If not for the coloring, Petyr may think him somehow related to Robert Baratheon for all that he whored and gathered bastards. Despite his love of making bastards, he certainly didn’t seem interested in marrying one. Regardless, Sansa could convince him. She had feminine wiles in spades; she simply had to learn how to seduce and the man would be hers. Yet, he had always wondered how he would get away with the heir’s death. Sweetrobin was soon to die, and he already lacked the trust from a good number of the Lord Declarants, despite managing to buy some to his side. If another Arryn were to die and he take the place at his widow’s side, well, there would be questions. It had always been a concern that he had remedied to deal with when the time came. Perhaps Domeric Bolton offered a different solution.

The boy was a fool. He had the same stories of knights and chivalry swirling around his head that sweet Sansa once did. He’d be just as easy to manipulate as she was, spinning a tale of returning the Stark girl the honors his own father had stolen from her would be enough. He didn't seem to have any of the cruel predilections of the rest of his Bolton blood. It could be simple with him. On the other hand, Harrold Hardyng was stubborn as a bull at points, full of all the bravado and self-righteousness of some of the boys his age. He’d be less malleable to all of Petyr’s plans and less inclined to care about starring in a potential heroic tale or love song.

Beyond which, people would wring their hands less when the Bolton boy died mysteriously, rather than the golden, beloved Harrold Hardyng. After all, Bolton was supposedly dead already, and no one seemed to care. There were still many days left in the tourney. He'd push the Bolton and Sansa together, continue to encourage her seduction of Hardyng, and keep an ever vigilant eye on proceedings as they developed until he created a full fledged plan and contingencies. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not horribly happy with this chapter, but I said fuck it. Nor am I happy with the next chapter, so updates might slow a little bit while I work out the kinks. As I said, I've changed a couple things as I've edited and it's had unforeseen repercussions throughout the rest of the chapters lol. 
> 
> In addition, I just moved my cat to the new house and now he hates me because it was scary and I broke his trust by putting him in a carrier. Ughhh, my emotions are fried, so bear with me.


	6. Domeric Bolton III

At the Gates of the Moon, there was no weirwood, be it a true one or even one of the big oaks that the Southerners liked to pretend were close enough. Nowhere he could sit and reflect. Yet, few bothered him when he was tending to his weapons and the constant slide of the wet stone against his sword was consistent enough to send him into a lull of empty thoughts. It wasn’t the same as a godswood and would never compare, but it would have to do, for he had much to stew on.

The entire realm thought him dead from the Wall to the Southern tip of Dorne. They thought he died of a stomach ailment or his bastard brother’s blade or who knows what. The rumors spiraled and no one rejected them. Considering his own state of hesitance and uncertainty, he was not about to speak out. Lord Redfort waited on his word and would not be so bold. But _Roose_. His father had not said a word, had not crushed the rumors and assured the realm that he had an heir ready to take over wardenship once he was gone.

It confused him that his father had not dispelled the rumors. Perhaps he believed that it would show a lack of control, if he could not say that his heir was in the North with him. Perhaps he feared Domeric speaking out against him and his vile acts. But no. His father was never afraid of anything, least of all his son. Of course, Roose had never truly cared what anyone said about him, so perhaps it was simply that he didn’t care what people thought about the strength of the Bolton household, heirless as it currently seemed even with a new Frey wife.

His life seemed almost an open secret in the Vale. Domeric had seen recognition on some faces, yet none had claimed him a Bolton. Perhaps it was Lord Redfort’s doing, convincing them to remain quiet, some further measure of protection. Or perhaps it was willful ignorance, for they would not have to confront the fact that they had one of such a disgusting bloodline in their honorable lands. Either way, he did not question it, and was rather thankful that none had come shouting accusations or screamed, running terrified from him. He would love to pretend to be nothing more than another Redfort son or even just a landless, nameless knight in their service. That is why it was such an unwelcome surprise to hear the voice interrupt his thoughts to call out to him, “Lord Bolton!”

Shoulders tensed automatically, before he forced himself to settle, breath out and turn his attention to Lord Petyr Baelish, the Lord Protector of the Vale, stood before him. Of course. After his stumbling, fumbling introduction to Alayne Stone, it would not be difficult to connect Dom of the Redfort to Domeric of the Dreadfort. And Littlefinger was known for his large collection of knowledge. “I believe I have you to thank for saving my daughter’s honor?” Ah, what an honor she’d believe it, now that her father had told her it was a Bolton who had saved her. A vowbreaker, a murderer, a flayer, and worse. But alas, he couldn’t focus on _those_ thoughts when Baelish was before him, couldn’t dare to show such a weakness of character. He simply had to be as cold and unfeeling as his father.

He had no personal basis to build into his lack of trust in the man. But Lord Redfort disliked Baelish, as did many of the lords of the Vale. As such, Domeric saw no reason to doubt their assessment, so he kept his coldness apparent with a simple nod, and, “Lord Protector,” as greeting. “I simply did what any knight would.” His short answers didn’t seem to deter the man, who came to stand before him, arms folded behind his back and slight smile on his lips.

“I am surprised that you haven’t returned to the North to take up your place as your father’s heir.” Evidently, Domeric needed to show nothing and Baelish would still know exactly which wound was the rawest. Yet, if he wanted to fall apart and delve into his messy thoughts regarding the whole affair, he would not do it in front of Baelish.

“I have no desire to return to the North at this time.” His tone was even, diplomatic. He gave no reason, letting Baelish draw his own conclusions. The sooner this conversation ended, the better.

Baelish’s face fell into a mask of sympathetic understanding and it nearly made Domeric cringe. There was nothing to suggest it was faked, but it felt _false_ all the same. “I can understand that what happened with your family must be…jarring, for an honorable knight such as yourself.”

Clenching his jaw, Domeric narrowed his eyes. He did not need nor want Baelish to try and see into his thoughts when he himself was avoiding that very thing. Cutting him off before he could speak again, Domeric asked rather bluntly, “What is it that you wanted, Lord Baelish?”

Evidently, Baelish was willing to appease his shortness, for he simply said, “Stay in the Vale for a time longer and guard my daughter.” Baelish spread his arms wide, looking helpless, “She is but a bastard girl, I know, but she is beautiful. And many men could care less about a beautiful woman’s birth as you well realize.” He sighed, continuing, “Even the men in my service…I do not know which of them to trust along with such a young maiden, or else I would not be coming to you now.”

“I don’t intend to stay in the Vale forever.” Domeric drawled, mostly to stall for time to consider an answer. It was strange that Baelish would look to a _Bolton_ to protect his daughter, even one raised in the Vale. Stranger still that he didn’t have a man already prepared to guard his daughter. But then, Domeric knew the type of men Baelish employed. Either those dirty enough that they couldn’t be trusted with a young maiden or arrogant enough that they’d be offended to be tasked with protecting a bastard.

“Of course not. I only need your assistance until the end of the tourney. Once the majority of the…let’s say _hotblooded_ young men disperse, my Alayne will be able to handle herself just fine.” Domeric wasn’t certain how true that was, but she _was_ Baelish’s daughter, so who knew what tricks she possessed. “I’ll give you compensation, of course.” Baelish added almost as an afterthought.

Perhaps a task, a duty would serve him well, help distract him from his future and quench his desire to not think about what he’d do with it. Even a duty as simple as guarding a maiden’s virtue. It was not as if he would object to spending most of his time with the fair Alayne, even though she had been near a ghost since their last meeting, at turns staring at him like _he_ had been the one corner her in that hallway or fleeing the room before he could even consider approaching. “Have you asked your daughter if she wanted a guard?”

Baelish huffed out a laugh, “Do I need to? It is my duty to insure my daughter’s protection.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t wish to be trailed by an unfamiliar man the rest of the tourney.” Domeric countered, “Perhaps it would scare her.” For she

“My Alayne has a stronger constitution than you’d believe, ser.” Baelish assured him, mirth in his gaze, “Even so, I would rather have her scared without cause than unprepared if someone more nefarious than yourself took interest in her.”

And the men _would_ take interest in her. Most would be polite about it, perhaps a few lowborn knights may even press a suit, but there would be outliers, especially after drinks and melees, when the men had their blood up. Could Domeric deny the woman his protection, even if it seemed she shied away from it? Perhaps that was it. Perhaps she was simply shy and avoided him because of it. He wouldn’t know until he spoke to her.

He could almost hear Aunt Barbrey lamenting in his head about his _knightly virtues_. It’d be easiest to ignore the request, deny Baelish, and continue on as he had. It’d be easier still to return to the North and take his place as the Bolton heir. But nothing was ever so easy, now that he’d have morals and honor drilled into his _core_. At times he wished he’d never fostered in the Vale, had grown up under his father’s tutelage alone. But then he’d laugh with Jasper or tease Mychel and know he’d regret growing up without this family, or worse, he’d shudder to think what type of man he’d be now if it had happened as such. Perhaps his father would enjoy that Bolton, but Domeric would _hate_ him.

Domeric finally declared, “I will think of it.” A clear dismissal, as if he, a wayward Northern heir, had any right to dismiss the Lord Protector of the Vale.

“That’s all I ask, good ser.” Baelish gave a dip of his head, but hesitated before going, the very picture of a concerned father, “I do ask you to consider quickly. Every moment alone is another moment my daughter is at risk.” Domeric wanted to rebel at the words. _Why is your daughter’s safety my duty?_ But alas, there was an easy answer to that: his duty included protecting the innocent. And with her sweet face and polite manners, there was no denying Alayne Stone’s innocence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a new keyboard, and it's a loud clicky clacky one, and it's surprisingly effective at keeping me engaged in writing and motivating me to keep going. Something so satisfying about the loudness of it lol.


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